Stopping by Woods
by ellesskay
Summary: Red and Liz are on the run, but have found space to stop and breathe in an unlikely place. Here, in the peace and quiet, will they finally be able to hear each other? AU post-S2, this is a quiet, cozy little fic to soothe the lizzington-shipping soul. Set in Maine, of all places.
1. Chapter 1

**RedxLiz on the run, because isn't that how we prefer them? This multi-chapter fic is meant to be a fluffy safe haven for shippers like myself who are finding it hard to keep the faith these days. Title borrowed from the inimitable Robert Frost, this is a slow-burn story that I hope to update at regular intervals. Disclaimed in the usual way, and any other characters are my own.**

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"Jesus..." she mumbled, stepping into the spray of the shower and letting it wash over her face. Elizabeth Keen hadn't been sleeping well of late. Something about being sought for the murder of the US Attorney General and having the her ex-partner heading up the FBI's chase made a good night's rest elusive. Frankly, the stress was terrible, and having been cooped up in everything from a shipping crate to an underground chamber to their current hideout in a tiny Maine B&B didn't leave much freedom to burn it off.

Liz lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, eyes closed against the water. _You need to get out of here and go for a run or, hell, even get laid—_

Her thoughts were abruptly cut off by the sound of a knock on the bathroom door.

"Lizzie?" The unmistakeable voice of one Raymond Reddington floated through the gapped wood. Liz jumped guiltily, caught off guard not only by the loud noise, but also the direction her inner monologue had taken. _Almost like he knows what you were considering._ Squelching the notion, Liz grabbed hastily for a the shampoo before answering him.

"Uh, yes?"

"My apologies for the intrusion, but would you mind if I use the vanity while you're in the shower?"

Liz let out a disbelieving snort. "You... want to use the mirror while I'm in here?" she called back, stalling, but suddenly a reassuring thought occurred to her. "Sorry, the door's locked!"

To her dismay, the answer to her assertion was the unmistakable sound of tumblers clicking open. His voice came again, this time clearer as the door swung open with a creak. "I wouldn't normally presume to do so, but the dingy, cracked excuse for a mirror in my bedroom simply won't do.

"Reddington!" She squeaked, instinctively covering herself with her hands, feeling exposed despite the curtain between them. "Did you just pick the lock on the bathroom door?!"

"Well, yes. Although I wouldn't give myself quite so much credit, these old skeleton key locks will open if you stick anything thinner than a cucumber into them." His voice trailed off into a pleased chuckle. "So how about it, do you mind awfully if I share the space? The shower curtain is quite opaque, I assure you."

"Well, since you've already _broken in_ ," Liz huffed, voice heavy with sarcasm. "Sure, be my guest."

"You're very kind, Lizzie. Thank you." The insincerity was either lost on him or ignored, and the next sounds were the door shutting again and the soft rummaging of what was likely Red opening his kit.

When he didn't say anything more, Liz rolled her eyes to herself and tentatively went back to showering. By rights she should have been more put off by the obvious invasion into her privacy, but things had been slowly changing between herself and the Concierge of Crime these past few months. Being in constant forced proximity to the man was one thing, but for another, she had to acknowledge that he was now the only person in the world she could fully trust. _Besides... his company really isn't so bad_.

Having rinsed the shampoo from her hair, she reached for the bar of soap. It was another few moments before her reverie was broken again by the sound of humming. It wasn't unpleasant, his smooth voice translated nicely into a tenor tone, but it did seem oddly intimate.

"Um, Red?" The humming paused.

"Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm shaving. What else did you imagine I would need a mirror for at this time in the morning?"

 _Yep, definitely intimate._ He was standing at the sink shaving while she lathered her body three feet away. When exactly had they made the jump from reluctant associates, to comfortable companions, to, well, _husband and wife_?

"Knowing how vain you are? I can think of any number of things," she shot back, a snap in her voice.

Red only laughed shortly, almost amused at her defensiveness as if he knew what caused it. "Lizzie, if you'd prefer that I lower my standards of personal hygiene, just say so. But not to worry, I'm just finishing up."

By the time she recognized the metallic squeaking of faucet taps that indicated what was about to happen, it was too late. The hot water coming from the shower head suddenly ran ice cold. With a shriek and physical jolt she had no control over, Liz leapt out of the spray, lost her footing against the slippery ceramic tub, and was falling.

The subsequent few moments were a dizzy flurry of shower curtain, water, limbs and pained expletives. Liz suddenly found herself looking dazedly up at the ceiling of the bathroom, vaguely aware that she had landed on something more forgiving than the tile floor she had expected. The next _next_ thing she was aware of was a pair of large hands clasped around her ribcage under her bare breasts. She screamed again, twisting her neck around to look into the pain-squinched features of Raymond Reddington.

"Mmph, Lizzie— ouch— you know, when I pictured a scenario involving you, naked, wet and screaming in my arms, this wasn't precisely what I had in mind."

She was laying on top of him, half-tangled in the curtain that had been jerked from the rod, both of them arranged haphazardly on the wet floor of the bathroom. Apparently Red had managed to catch her and break her fall with his own body.

"Oh, FUCK—!" Mortified, Liz scrambled to move off of him, reaching frantically for the curtain and wrapping it around herself, noticing abruptly that the edge of it was splashed red with something that looked horribly like...

"Am I... Am I bleeding?" She touched the back of her head, confused.

"No, sweetheart, that would be my blood," he mumbled, grunting as she levered herself off of his chest and spun to look at him. He was looking at her through a grimace, half propped against the wall, dressed in a pair of navy slacks and a white undershirt, the latter of which was torn and marred between the neck and shoulder with a growing scarlet stain. "In my ah, surprise and haste to catch you I lost track of my straight razor. It seems to have found me, though."

"Jesus, Red..." biting her lip at the sight, Liz quickly reached behind her to shut off the still-running shower. Shoving the fact that she was still drenched and, more to the point, _naked_ , to the back of her consciousness, she clamped the curtain under her arms and moved back towards him. "I... what should I do. We should put pressure—"

The sound of running feet and the second loud knock in 10 minutes interrupted the scene.

"Hello? Is everything alright in there?"

 _Oh, Christ, it's the land lady. Damn this old New England house without bathrooms en suite._ Liz shut her eyes disbelievingly, shaking her head before sliding her gaze to meet Red's. He was managing a pained grin at her, the humor of the situation clearly not lost on him despite everything.

"Answer her!" she hissed insistently, wanting to slug him even as he sat there bleeding from a razor wound, of all things.

"Everything's fine, Gladys!" He called, his voice incredibly calm and cheerful. _Of course he remembers her name._

"Are you sure, Mr. Norton? I heard screaming and a loud crash!"

"Perfectly sure! The screaming was my fiancée, she ah, saw a spider—ow!" This time she really had hit him. In the opposite arm, but still as he flinched away from her a fresh wave of blood pulsed from his shoulder.

"Oh, your... your fiancée is in there with you?" The attempt was valiant, but frankly Gladys failed miserably at not sounding scandalized. Liz was not surprised, the poor old widow.

Meanwhile, Reddington plowed on. "She is, but we're both quite alright although I can't say the same for the spider, hence the crashing noise you heard," he winked outrageously at her. "So don't you worry, and also please don't hold breakfast on account of us! I would not say no to one of your absolutely delicious scones though, Gladys, if you would be so lovely as to hold a few back," he finished, voice slipping smoothly into the compliment.

"Oh, well of course, Mr. Norton. I'll make you up a plate and start a fresh pot of coffee," Gladys called back, mollified at least slightly by his flattery. The footsteps finally receded and Liz covered her face in her hands, a miserable blush heating her cheeks.

"It seems I have secured us breakfast, at the very least," Red ventured cheerily, which Liz patently ignored.

"You! Why would you say I was in here?"

"She said she heard a scream. Multiple screams, in fact. I didn't think she would believe me capable of making such a noise."

"But then why not explain further that you were just using the mirror while I was washing my hair?!" She spluttered indignantly. "Now she thinks that we were... we were..."

Red contemplated the young woman across from him in the small bathroom. Her wet hair clung to her temples in damp ringlets, and the shower curtain wasn't doing enough to obscure the fact that the blush coloring her cheeks was rising up from her chest. _She is gorgeous_. He dragged his eyes guiltily back up to hers and noted the dangerous gleam in them. _Gorgeous and homicidal, apparently,_ he thought, acknowledging that the two were far from mutually exclusive as far as Elizabeth Keen was concerned.

"That we were what, Lizzie?" His velvet voice slid even further into a smug purr, unable to resist the tease. He tilted his head at her and quirked his mouth. The innuendo was inescapable.

"That we were fucking in the shower," She finished bluntly, sick at last of allowing him to tease her. At least the momentarily stunned look on his face was gratifying; he wasn't the easiest man to catch off guard. But then the raised eyebrows suddenly furrowed again, and Red tried to twist his neck to look down at the gash in his shoulder.

"Yes, well. That would have undoubtedly been vastly more enjoyable than the actual sequence of events," he allowed, attempting to sit up higher and letting out a hiss of pain.

Following his gaze, Liz felt a surge of guilt at the fact that she had been distracted from the fact that he was bleeding quite badly. By now the white undershirt was thoroughly saturated all down his left side. "We need to close that up," she murmured, biting her lip.

Red, however, shook his head shortly. "I'm fine. Nothing to worry about."

She looked at him incredulously. "Are you out of your mind? I'd have to think that someone who once did a field transfusion while locked in a glass box knows enough about wounds to know that we are _not_ leaving that open,"

"In a perfect world, you're absolutely right. But given the location of the cut," He motioned vaguely with his good hand. "And the circumstances that negate the possibility of visiting an emergency room, I'll make do with some painkillers and a few bandaids."

At this assertion, Liz rolled her eyes so emphatically that Red couldn't help a dry, pained chuckle. "Oh, gee, it's really too bad you're on the run from the FBI _all by yourself_ ," she drawled sarcastically, and he lifted his chin in response.

"Make your point, Elizabeth."

"My point is, _Raymond_ , that I am perfectly capable of helping you if you'd stop being so damn stubborn."

He realized what she was getting at, of course, and she wasn't wrong about his general reluctance to accept assistance. Getting by as the fourth entry on the FBI's Most Wanted list had largely been a solo affair, after all. Still, he raised an eyebrow at her. "You? You want to give me medical care?"

"Do I want to? Less and less," Liz shot back, hotly. "But, as you pointed out, given the current circumstances... yes."

"Forgive me, Lizzie," Red began, the amused tone belying an actual request for forgiveness. "But while your talents are inarguably varied and many, I had not thought to include doctoring among them."

"As you well know, I'm _not_ a doctor. But I did receive at least basic field training, courtesy of the FBI."

"And here's where I remind you that 'courtesy of the FBI' isn't my favorite of qualifications."

"Christ, will you just shut up?" She snapped through gritted teeth. "If it were me you'd have pinned me down and finished stitching me up by now."

"Ah, you have _also_ imagined me pinning you down?"He grinned, thinking that she was just so easy to wind up. "Let's talk more about _—_ "

"RED. ENOUGH." Elizabeth Keen brought a hand down on the wet bathroom tile, the slapping noise and sharp rise in volume in her voice effectively silencing her companion. She took a deep breath, glaring at him and clutching the curtain tighter as she stretched to reach for a towel balanced on the back of the toilet. "I am going to go get dressed and you are going to meet me in your room in 5 minutes. Bring whatever medical supplies you have."

Reasonably chastened, Red sniffed. "No need to shout, you'll have Gladys back up here," he mumbled, averting his eyes as she wrapped herself in the towel and dropped the curtain. Stepping over him, Liz peeked out the door to check that the coast was clear before wrenching it open and striding down the hall towards her room.

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AN: So there's chapter one. Off to a fluffy and indulgent start, no? I'm new to this game, so any thoughts are appreciated as motivation to continue!


	2. Chapter 2

**Welcome back to Maine, I do hope you continue to enjoy the story. Disclaimed in the usual way, and any other characters are my own.**

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Four minutes later found Red standing at the foot of his bed, unrolling a first aid kit and surveying the contents with a resigned air. He had done a bit more contorting and twisting, hoping briefly to forestall Elizabeth's assistance by fixing up the injury himself, but eventually was forced to admit that he wouldn't be able to reach it. In fact, the only thing he had achieved was tweaking his neck.

Using his good hand to select a gauze pad and press it firmly to the still seeping razor cut, Raymond Reddington let out a grumbly sigh. _Lizzie is right—you need stitches._ As much as he didn't relish the idea of her help, and much less the inevitability of having to explain his scarred back, he realized that in their current situation a constantly re-opening wound was more trouble than it was worth. Just the possibility of leaving DNA everywhere was enough reason to put an end to such a foolish notion.

A firm tap at the door roused him from his contemplation, and Red sighed again before moving to open it. Liz stood in the hall, dressed now in a pair of jeans and a soft gray t-shirt, regarding him with slight surprise.

"You know, I wasn't sure you'd let me in," she said coolly, moving past him as he stood aside to let her into the room. The warm scent of her shampoo filled his nose as she did so, her hair still slightly damp.

"I thought you might be Gladys with a scone," he replied flatly. "Silly me."

This earned him a quirk of her lips, and Red allowed himself a smirk in response as their eyes met.

"Well. I'm glad you opened the door." Liz recovered her serious tone, taking inventory of the medical supplies on the bed. It wasn't an insubstantial kit, and she was pleased to see that it included a few sterile suture sets. "Alright, let's just get this over with. Can we move that chair over to the window? It'll have the best light."

Red just watched her silently for a moment as she headed towards the wooden chair at the old desk and repositioned it across the room without waiting for his say-so. 'Business Lizzie' was all business, her stoic manner belying the FBI influence he still hadn't managed to completely shake out of her—although certainly not for lack of trying.

"Um, hello?"

He jumped at the loud question, and moved automatically towards her with a huff. "Yes, hello. You don't need to yell to get my attention."

"A) that wasn't yelling, and B) apparently I do. C'mere and let's get this done so you can go eat your precious scone and I can go for a run," she flapped an impatient hand at him to come sit, pulling the first aid kit towards the edge of the bed nearest her.

Red made a face, rolling his eyes even as he walked to her side and reluctantly sat down in the proffered seat. "Frankly I think you'd benefit far more from having breakfast with me than you would from an endless jaunt around a frozen lake," he murmured, earning himself a skeptical glance. "Far be it from me to tell you what to do, sweetheart, but you are looking a bit... drawn lately."

"Oh, far be it from _you_ to tell me what to do?" Liz let out a derisive hoot of laughter. "That's rich, Red. Maybe the reason I'm looking a bit ' _drawn_ ' is because I haven't been allowed to spend any time in the open for the past months—"

"Elizabeth, I absolutely will not apologize for keeping you safe." Even from a seated position, the firm authority in his voice filled the room and stopped Liz short. She dropped her gaze immediately, biting her lip.

Red sighed and chewed at the inside of his cheek before continuing in a softer tone. "I'm sorry for a great many things, as you well know—not the least of which are disrupting your entire life and causing each and every deplorable mess up to this particular point—but given my inability to turn back time, the best I can do is to protect you going forward." He let out a harsh chuckle, absent-mindedly pulling blood-stained fingertips from the gauze at his collar to scrub across his eyes. "If it helps, it does sadden me to know you think so poorly of my efforts thus far."

"Red, no, that's not what I..." Liz began, but closed her mouth again and instead reached for his hand. "Stop that, you're getting blood all over your face," she admonished gently, swiping the pad of her thumb across his cheek to erase a scarlet smudge. Red's face was smooth and warm under her touch, and Elizabeth Keen found herself swallowing hard before catching his fingers in her own and guiding them gently back to put pressure on his cut.

"You're doing a great job at protecting me," she said at last. "Know how I know?"

The man sitting across from her merely raised a dubious eyebrow at her.

"I'm still here— I, we— we both are." Clear blue eyes met green ones and held fast. "We're still alive, we're still together, and that's because of you. I may feel a little bit, uh, cooped up at times, but that's no excuse for me to imply that I'm anything but grateful," Liz blew a breath out from between her teeth, worrying her bottom lip. _Jesus, why is it so hard to thank him when he so obviously needs and deserves it?_

"Listen. Who knows about tomorrow, or next week, or Hell, even the next five minutes, but for now... I'm okay. We're okay," she finished somewhat lamely, searching his gaze for a sign that he believed her.

The charged silence seemed to stretch out before finally, Red flashed her the briefest of his trademark half-smiles. "You know, _'okay'_ seems a bit strong for _my_ current situation," he indicated his shoulder. "Although now that I think about it, is the reason you have me sitting in this horrendously uncomfortable chair to do something about that? Or are we just here for a heart-to-heart?"

In spite of herself, the young woman standing in front of him let out a chuff of laughter and shook her head. "You're unbelievable, you know that?"

Red raised his chin impishly. "So I've been told."

The quiet returned after that, but it was more comfortable as Liz selected a few items from the kit and arranged them close at hand.

"Alright, do you think you can get that over your head? Or do you want me to cut it off?"

"Excuse me, what?" Red had been looking out the window at the bleak winter scene behind the inn, but his attention returned to her at this apparent non-sequitur.

She extracted a pair of rubber gloves and pulled them on with a snap, shooting him a bemused look. "Your shirt, genius. I'm not going to be able to do anything with it in the way."

"Oh. Ah," he stalled, tongue tucked behind his teeth. _Well this is going to be uncomfortable._ He had just managed to lighten the mood after their previous accidental foray into feelings, and now she was going to see his burn scars. She'd know what they meant. "Am I going to be the only one disrobing, then? That seems a bit unfair, don't you think?"

It was a pathetic attempt at a diversion and he didn't really expect her to do anything other than scoff, which was likely why her next move caught him completely off-guard.

"Y'know what, Reddington? Fine." In one smooth motion Elizabeth Keen reached for the hem of her t-shirt and drew it upwards and off over her head, tossing it onto the bed. She stood before him in jeans, a black bra and, most absurdly of all, white latex gloves. "You've seen mine, now show me yours."

Stunned as he was, he didn't even reach to stop her as she picked up a pair of bandage scissors and began cutting his undershirt at the neck.

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AN: And there's chapter two! I must admit that the reason this second installment is up so quickly is because I largely had it written already. Hopefully the quickness will help in the face of it being a bit shorter than I'd like—I couldn't find a more sensical place to break it up.

To those who have reviewed: I so appreciate the support thus far and will continue to be motivated by feedback.


	3. Chapter 3

**Good morning! I hope you enjoy this slightly longer installation. Disclaimed in the usual way, and that any other characters are my own.**

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By the time she reached the bottom hem of his t-shirt, Red had recovered well enough to begin trying to derail her once more.

"Elizabeth, where's your sense of propriety?" he pressed, flapping his good hand at her partial nudity. _She is within an arm's length and without a shirt._ He received a rather withering glare in response as she made the last cut and set the scissors aside.

"You're kidding. What about last week in Florida? I spent 72 hours in a bikini that wasfar more revealing than this."

"That bikini was lovely—" he began, and she quirked an eyebrow at him, mouthing ' _lovely?'_ "—but you're far less talented a profiler than I thought if you don't understand how the basic male reaction to _bathing suits_ differs from that of _underwear_. Not everything is about simple coverage, sweetheart."

"Oh, please. Then men are idiots."

"We agree, at least, on that."

Liz smiled at that, albeit involuntarily, and to cover the reaction she began gently peeling the blood-soaked fabric away from his skin. Red sucked in an uncomfortable breath as she worked, the fibers of his shirt tugging at the wound, and she shot him an apologetic glance.

"Sorry, it's just, the blood has dried a little."

"Oh, don't be silly. I'm fine. Not the worst that's ever happened to me by half," he assured her with a crinkle-eyed smile of his own. She was mistaking his apprehension of being revealed as The Man From The Fire for physical discomfort. It was endearing, in a way, that she had borne witness to him being shot in the chest and still worried that something as innocuous as a shaving injury was causing him distress.

His mind spun quickly through any number of ways to get out of his current predicament, each more ridiculous than the last, but ultimately he swallowed hard at the realization that there was nothing for it. Bereft of an escape plan, he turned his attention instead to the other distraction at hand; namely the half-naked woman leaning over him. Standing close enough that he could feel the warmth from her skin, smell the faint scent of soap lingering from her shower. Dressed in denim that clung low on her hips and a bra she likely considered ordinary and utilitarian, but in his view was anything but. He closed his eyes, drawing a deep slow breath.

 _Lizzie._ Bewitching in spite of her prickly demeanor, or perhaps even because of it. Strong and vibrant, she challenged him at every turn—pushing him to do better, to explain himself, to keep on his toes, and now, to fight off a wave of arousal that rolled through him as her fingers ghosted along his neck. _Damn her and her seemingly unrealized sexual appeal._

Meanwhile, as she loosened the shirt from the increasingly sticky wound, Liz was struggling uphill against her own awareness of the man under her hands. Raymond Reddington was a puzzle wrapped in an enigma cloaked in exquisite three-piece suits most of the time, but she'd be lying if she said she'd never imagined what might be underneath them. He was strong and capable, that much she knew, but even in the close quarters necessitated by being on the run she had rarely seen him in anything less than a dress shirt.

A soft smattering of chest hair dusting his solidly defined pectoral muscles was being revealed as she worked. _Keen. Keep it clinical, for God's sake._ Setting her jaw mulishly, she refused the urge to cast an appraising eye over the him. _This is the Concierge of Crime, after all, number four on the FBI's Most Wanted list... leaving aside the fact that now_ you're _number three._

Having freed the fabric at last, she moved to slide it from his shoulders. Her fingers drifted over uneven skin on the back of his left shoulder and even through the gloves she felt it. They both froze.

Red winced. "Elizabeth..." But before he could finish Liz slowly allowed her hand to travel to the left and right. She still hadn't said anything and he couldn't bring himself to look up at her directly. "Lizzie," he tried again, working his mouth furiously.

"Red?" Her voice was hesitant. Confused. She knew, somehow, what she was feeling. As if in a dream she leaned to the side and peered around at his upper back and though he steeled himself as if expecting a blow, he made no further move to stop her. The gasp was loud in the quiet room and Red flinched again as if she had slapped him.

Burns. Terrible and pervasive, a sprawling spiderweb that stretched from shoulder to shoulder and as far down as she could see. Liz's breath hissed through her teeth at the sight. She reached out again hesitantly to touch and as she did so, caught sight of the scar gracing her own wrist. And just like that, she knew. Her mind spun dizzily through memories—the man on the floor that night of the fire, Red's unwillingness to explain how their pasts had intertwined, the many horrible things she had said to him in her anger at being kept in the dark, their current situation as partners in crime.

"You..." she whispered.

"Me." Red confirmed the unasked question with an unhappy sigh. He kept his gaze averted, imagining that he could hear her mind whirring, waiting for the inevitable outburst.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Her voice was soft but firm, and quite frankly miles away from either the yelling or sobs he had expected. He took only a moment to consider, having spent many a sleepless night pondering that exact question.

"It wouldn't have been worth it to trigger the full memory of that night. I thought about it, many times in the face of losing your trust completely, but... protecting you from that past was more important."

"Oh, right. Your whole 'sin-eater' complex," she intoned flatly, and he opened his mouth as if to respond, but said nothing and instead nodded once. Liz tore her eyes from his scarred flesh and let her gaze slide softly forward to study his profile. "And after?"

"After what?"

"After the whole Connolly episode where I remembered shooting my father anyway, despite your efforts. Why didn't you tell me then?" She pressed.

His eyes darted to her face before returning to some spot on the far wall. "Well, Lizzie, I was rather occupied with orchestrating our hasty exit from a city swarming with—"

"I didn't mean that _exact_ moment and you know it, Red. You've had months since that day. Hours, _days_ of us in close quarters with nothing but time and conversation. Couldn't find a moment to slip it in?"

"What, just blurt it out? _'Lizzie, could you hold the flashlight while we break into yet another vehicle and oh by the way the reason we know each other is because I pulled you out of that fire 30 years ago?'_ Or, no, how about: _'Sorry we'll be eating tuna fish again tonight, sweetheart, but do you want to see some horrific burn scars?'_ " He let out a short humorless chuckle and shook his head.

"Forgive me for saying so, but you were in a bit of a fragile state for a while there. I know you believe I have no boundaries to speak of, but I was the only person you had in the world after we ran and manipulating that tenuous confidence further would have..." His voice was rough with uncertainty. "Well. It wouldn't have been fair to you."

As he spoke Liz continued to let her fingers absently glide over the raised scar tissue, reading the story held there like braille. A man she had once thought would stop at nothing to control her emotions had been holding the key to her unconditional trust the entire time, and had been unwilling to use it. She was stunned, certainly, to be faced with the whole truth of that terrible night in the broad light of day, but it didn't feel like she thought it would. Absent were the burning feelings of self-righteous anger, or the sting of betrayal. Instead, the odd void in her chest that had formed at the sight of his ruined back was filling slowly with something that felt like warmth.

"Lizzie..?" His low utterance of her name pulled her from her thoughts and she realized she hadn't yet responded to his admissions. He was still avoiding her eyes, but had clearly become uncomfortable at the long silence.

Liz took a deep breath and let her hand trail forwards from his back, up the side of his neck and to his cheek where it came to a rest, lightly cupping his jaw. His green gaze flicked to hers uncertainly.

"I can't say it isn't a bit of a shock..." she began, choosing her words carefully, aware that he was coiled like a spring against the palm of her hand. "And this conversation probably isn't entirely over, but Red? It's alright." His eyes slipped shut at these words, but she continued. "Your overbearing and somewhat twisted methods of keeping me safe aside, I trust you. You've earned it a thousand times over and I think... I think I appreciate being able to arrive here on my own terms."

The man in front of her let out a breath he looked surprised by, as if he hadn't realized he'd been holding it, and nodded sharply once. He blinked harder than was strictly necessary, feeling his eyes prickle with emotion at her forgiveness. The warmth of her absolution in the hand against his cheek.

The charged moment was broken by a groan of realization from Liz's lips. He quirked an eyebrow at her in question.

"Oh, God. In Florida you told me you weren't wearing a bathing suit because you're not a strong swimmer! You're such a—"

Red laughed, relief evident in his tone and posture. "Yes, I couldn't actually believe you bought that excuse. I was in the Navy for Pete's sake."

 **x . x . x . x**

"Just pinch the edges of the skin together and push the needle through."

"I know."

"Of course, I was merely—"

"Hey. Do you trust me, or not?"

"Implicitly."

"Then stop instructing me, _merely_ or otherwise."

Red opened his mouth to reply, but decided against it and closed it again into a gentle smirk. Having finally gotten around to the task at hand, Liz had cleaned the wound and was now poised to begin suturing. She slid the needle in at one end of the cut and smoothly pulled the thread taut. With her attention otherwise occupied, he took the opportunity to watch her work in such close quarters.

Her brow was furrowed in concentration and she chewed at one corner of her bottom lip as she stitched. The sudden urge to release it from between her teeth with the brush of a thumb, to kiss that very spot came out of nowhere and was so strong that he bit down on the inside of his own cheek to quell it. _Oh, hell_. Red thought with an inward groan.

Their time together thus far on the run had not been without moments like these—fleeting impulses brought on by exhaustion, or alcohol, or adrenaline—unrequited love did tend to manifest as such, he acknowledged bitterly. But he had become an expert at tamping them down and keeping his distance. Necessary proximity, like now, tended to make it a bit more difficult.

Lizzie had become more comfortable around him, of that he was certain, but still he did not for a moment imagine that she'd be open to anything more than innuendo. His flirtatious banter was brushed aside with an eyeroll, his companionable touches accepted as platonic. _She is young and whole, and you're anything but,_ he mused resignedly. _Best to keep eyes on the goal and_ off _the sweet rise of cleavage a mere foot away_...

"Tell me how to make croissants."

Red started, brought from his thoughts once again by an apparently nonsensical statement from the woman at his shoulder. He cleared his throat. "I... You think I know how to make croissants?"

"I think you know at least something about everything," Liz murmured, eyes still fixed on her task. "And you're a good enough bullshitter that I'll believe you. Just start talking, this silence is unnerving."

"The key to making croissants, Lizzie, is keeping the butter cold." He began smoothly, after a beat. "And work quickly on a marble surface. If the butter melts while you're rolling out the dough the delicate layers will be destroyed and you'll be left with a chewy lump rather than flaky pastry." He paused here, noticing that his companion had ceased her stitching. "Something wrong?"

"You actually know how to make croissants." It wasn't even a question.

"I spent a winter living in Buis les Barronies in the Southeast of France, where I learned something of the art of French baking from an old boulangère named Claudette. Absolutely terrifying woman—arms like fleshy cannons and not at all hesitant to swing a rolling pin." Red chuckled at the memory, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Liz couldn't help her own smile at his familiar style of storytelling.

"Sounds... formidable," she said at last, moving to continue with a third suture.

"Indeed, the very word for her," he agreed genially, warming to his recount. "Anyway, what was I—oh yes, croissants. You can't imagine the amount of butter that goes into them, Elizabeth, my goodness! Enough that before you even begin with the dough you form it into a _beurrage_ , which is a block of butter. Hm, the French do seem to have a word for everything, don't they?"

As he continued, Liz worked steadily, fighting a grin and the glowing ember of warmth in her chest at the odd situation. Only Raymond 'Red' Reddington could smooth away tedious discomfort with a story that was one part recipe, two parts outlandish anecdote.

"...The method is called 'lamination', by the way, and while baking, the layers of butter give off steam and cause the layers of dough to separate..."

It was what made being a wanted fugitive even somewhat bearable, she supposed, that her gregarious companion was able to take the direst of circumstances and with the wave of his hand make them appear the wildest of adventures.

"...But after a rather unfortunate incident in which I lost track of my watch in the vicinity of a large bowl of batter, I thought it best to hang up the apron for good," Red concluded wistfully.

"The world lost a talented baker that day, I'm sure," Liz reassured him with a crooked smile, sliding a knot neatly down the thread and reaching for a tiny pair of scissors to cut it.

"Thank you for saying so, Lizzie," He nodded, before chuckling again and shaking his head. "Although I'd be lying if I said the goose egg raised on the back of my skull by Claudette's rolling pin for ruining a batch of her famous madeleines didn't speed that decision along."

"Right, well, I'm finished," she announced, securing a pad of gauze over the finished sutures with a bit of tape and straightening up. Red was looking at her steadily, and on a whim, she kissed the tips of her fingers and brushed them lightly over the neat bandage.

"There," she murmured with downward-cast eyes, as if surprised by her own action. She moved to let her hand slide from his shoulder, but before it fell to her side Red caught it in his own. He squeezed her fingers gently, bringing them to his mouth. _Oh, god. What is he... is he really going to...?_

"I seem to recall being told that when someone does something nice, you should say thank you," he rumbled, before pressing the pads of her fingertips to his lips briefly. Individually. And when he spoke again it was against her skin. "Thank you, Elizabeth."

"I..." Liz swallowed hard, her mind spinning. She had to pull her hand back, had to get some distance because there was no way something as simple as a thank you and as un-erotic as stitches should have her heart hammering in her ears. She took a deep, steadying breath. _Get a hold of yourself, Keen._ "You're welcome."

Red nodded, his gaze soft on hers before it traveled from her face downwards. He noted with a small amount of surprise that she had goosebumps. _Would you look at that._ He smirked, raising an eyebrow at her. "Well. Now that that's done, perhaps we should both put our shirts back on, Lizzie. You do appear to be... cold."

"Maybe I would, if you'd let go of my hand," she smiled sweetly back at him, steadfastly refusing the blush that threatened to heat her cheeks. He dropped her hand as if it had burned him. _Ha. What a hypocrite._ She began to gloat inwardly, but that line of thought froze in its tracks as his other hand came up and both settled at her waist.

Raymond Reddinton's palms were rough and warm and much larger than she had realized. They gripped just above her jeans, heavy and searing into her skin. Green-eyed gaze met with bright blue and breaths caught. Something pulsed between them in that moment, wordless and urgent.

Red stood, and despite not being an overly tall man, he loomed over her, all strong chest and broad shoulders. "Lizzie," he growled, voice honeyed gravel in his throat. _Like a jaguar from inside a cello,_ she thought wildly, tilting her chin up and subconsciously licking her lips at the look on his face. He was going to kiss her. She could feel the pull of him—

A loud knock on the door startled them apart like scalded cats.

"Mr. Norton? It's me, again. I have that plate of scones for you!"

* * *

AN: There! A long third chapter! I was struck by something said by a guest reviewer—that they prefer a feisty, capable, intelligent, funny Liz who acts logically, and a respectful, affectionate, confident but somewhat self-deprecating Red. I obviously feel the same way. These two are a team, and all the better when they act like one. If you've been reading this far and like my characterizations, I'm guessing you're with me on that. And remember folks: slow-burn is the best burn.

Thank you so much to anyone who has reviewed, it makes the process so much faster and enjoyable.


	4. Chapter 4

**Welcome back, readers. I've been overwhelmed by the positive reviews, and for that I thank you all. This chapter is quieter, but hopefully to your liking. Disclaimed in the usual way, and any other characters are my own.**

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Red barely registered the flurry of movement as Liz left his space, cursing inwardly in six different languages at the interruption. He had been about to kiss her, and more importantly, she had been about to let him. _Beyond that_ , he thought with a repressed groan. _She would have kissed him back._ Unless he had misjudged the situation horrendously—and he would stake his life on it that he hadn't—Elizabeth Keen had been just as eager as he.

Another rap of knuckles shook him from his frustrated reverie.

"Mr. Norton?"

He sighed harshly, snatching a button-down shirt from where it had been laid out on the bed and hastily shrugging it on with a wince before striding to the door. Pausing to arrange his features into a polite smile, Red turned the knob and pulled to reveal the landlady.

"Oh, hello, Gladys," he greeted her genially.

"Mr. Norton! I thought since you missed breakfast, I'd just deliver these while they're still warm," she beamed up at him, thrusting a plate containing four cranberry scones into his hands.

Bathed in the glow of her enthusiasm, Red couldn't help a more genuine smile himself. "Well isn't that kind of you. Thank you very much," he murmured, leaning over to inhale the tendrils of steam. "Mmmm they smell absolutely divine. And please, won't you call me James?"

Gladys tittered, flush with pleasure at the compliment and invitation. "Oh, of course, James," She patted him on the arm. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Just bring the plate down when you're done, and be sure to share with your charming financée, young man!"

And with that, she turned and shuffled back down the hallway, leaving Red standing with his hands full of baked goods and a somewhat bemused smirk on his face. _Young man, indeed._ Shaking his head, he retreated into the room and shut the door again.

"Breakfast is served..." He trailed off, having turned to face Liz and found the room apparently empty. Looking around quizzically, he set the plate down on the nightstand. "Lizzie?"

"Is she gone?" Her voice came tentatively from the far side of the bed. Red moved towards the sound and peered over the edge of the mattress. Liz was laying flat on her stomach on the floor, half obscured by the dust ruffle.

"What are you doing?"

"Hiding from your best friend Gladys, what does it look like?" she huffed, carefully sliding free and pushing herself up to a kneeling position. Red watched her, eyes bright with amusement.

"May I ask why? We're supposedly engaged, you know." He offered her a hand.

"I know that," she blew a few errant strands of blond hair out of her face before placing her hand in his and allowing him to pull her to her feet. "But we do have separate rooms, thanks to my strict Roman Catholic family."

"I do hate it when religion gets in the way of romance." He pressed his lips together and sighed theatrically.

"I'm sure. Just hand me my shirt, would you?"

He passed her the requested item and watched quietly as she tugged it on over her head. The clumsy maneuver was simultaneously undignified and adorable. It left her looking rumpled and pink cheeked. It left him on the verge of saying something aching and idiotic.

"Alright, well. I'm going to head back to my room for bit, but did you want to maybe go into town later? I really just need to get out of the house for awhile."

"Hm? Beg pardon?" He had been staring at her mouth, wondering desperately how to get back to where they were before the landlady had interrupted them. The moment popped like a soap bubble. Liz raised an eyebrow at him and squinted knowingly.

"Never mind. I'll see you downstairs in a while." And with that, she nudged him gently in the shoulder and walked to the door, pausing to grab a scone off the plate at his bedside.

"I thought you didn't like scones," Red called after her a bit lamely, and she shrugged, taking a big bite as she left.

"Gladys said to share, _James_. Oh, and by the way?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you really not own clothing besides three piece suits? This is Maine, for chrissake. It wouldn't kill you to wear a little plaid, or something."

 **x . x . x . x**

Raymond Reddington flicked through his closet half-heartedly, past a few suit coats and crisp button-down shirts. _Plaid?_ _What does she take me for?_ He thought with a roll of his eyes, although he did have to admit that there was something to her point about blending in with their surroundings. Usually Dembe or another of many advance men would have preceded him and provided all manner of clothing and amenities, but their haphazard dash from place to place in the past month especially had precluded such conveniences.

They had arrived at the Snowy Owl Inn only the night before, tired and carrying only a weekend bag apiece. Liz's usual attire included jeans and t-shirts and sweaters, which allowed her to maintain a low profile in a variety of settings. Meanwhile, Red's preferred custom suits were out of place outside of more metropolitan areas—and Maine certainly qualified as such. Even now he was dressed in a pair of navy slacks and matching vest over a white shirt.

Rolling his eyes once more, this time at himself, Red sighed and turned to exit his room. With only a glance at the closed door on the opposite side of the hall, he made his way down the creaky staircase in search of the landlady.

A brief check of the parlor and dining room revealed nothing, but upon hearing noise coming from the kitchen he palmed the swinging door and leaned in. "Excuse me, Gladys? I was wondering if I could bother you for a moment."

The woman in question was washing dishes at the sink, but looked around at this greeting. "Oh, hello, Mr. Nort—James!"

"I do apologize if I'm interrupting anything."

"Not at all, not an interruption! Just my usual chores," she assured him, setting down a plate and wiping her hands on a faded floral apron. "Dishes, you know. Endless! But what can I do for you?"

"Well," he began smoothly, moving further into the room and flicking the buttons open on a sleeve to begin rolling it up. "It seems I'm in need of a few items this afternoon, but I'm not precisely familiar with the area. To that end I'm hoping you'll be able to recommend a retailer for me."

Gladys turned to face him fully and smiled, blinking owlishly behind thick lenses. "Of course, I've lived in this town for more than 70 years. What sort of shopping are you looking to do?"

"Clothing, of the casual variety." Red replied, reaching to pick up a dish towel and motioning for her to hand him the plate she had recently washed. She did so with a grateful nod and he dried it meticulously. "The fact is that I was told rather bluntly that 'this is Maine and it wouldn't kill me to wear a little plaid, or something'"

Gladys laughed, a high and quavery trill, as she resumed her position at the sink. "Now who would have said such a thing?"

Red chuckled as he fell in beside her and she handed him another dish. "Yes, I wonder."

"Well, not to disagree with the lovely—Megan, was it?"

He nodded.

"But I happen to think you look quite handsome in your finery, James. We don't see enough effort going into dress code up this way, and there hasn't been a nice suit in the house since my Winston passed about eight years back."

Red paused, sensing the weight of the compliment followed by a reference to her late husband. He set another bowl on the dish rack and laid a hand softly on her shoulder.

"Thank you kindly, Gladys, but the lady does have a point. A Maine winter is more suited to sweaters, than, well, suits," He acknowledged gently, receiving a good-natured harrumph in response.

They washed and dried in companionable silence for a moment, the sound of running water and dishes clinking a mellow soundtrack to the task. Handing over one last platter and turning off the faucet, the elderly woman sighed a bit forlornly and looked up at him.

"You know something? Come to think of it you, and Winston are of a similar height and build. Let me go see if I've got anything in the closet."

"Oh, I—"

"You wait right there, I'll just be a minute!"

Red blinked at this unexpected turn of events, but before he could protest further she had bustled out of the room and up the back staircase. Alone now in the kitchen, he listened to the receding creak of footsteps and leaned a hip into the well-worn counter. _Well_ that _was certainly an interesting interaction_ , he mused, drying his hands and shoving them into his pockets. The poor old widow was clearly lonely, and happy to have people in the house—for the company as much as the income. He guessed that he and Lizzie were the first visitors since the fall foliage had faded.

 _And it's good here_ , he thought, allowing his gaze to travel to the window over the sink where pines stood straight in the pale sunshine. _It's safe._ Maybe a remote place of peace was just what they needed, after all of the running. Somewhere quiet enough to finally hear each other. _And isn't today proof of that?_ Elizabeth Keen had discovered his deepest secret and hadn't fled, or even stuck a pen in his neck. If that wasn't significant progress, he didn't know what was.

"James, be a dear and help me with some of this," came the landlady's somewhat muffled voice, breaking his reverie as he turned to see a teetering stack of shirts walk back into the kitchen.

"Here, allow me!" Red hurried over and relieved her of the burden, hanging a few hangers on the back of a chair and sliding the rest onto the seat. "When you said you were going to see if you had anything in the closet I didn't realize you meant to carry the entire contents down," he murmured, eyeing the pile incredulously.

Gladys merely clicked her tongue and shook her head, selecting a flannel item from the chair and holding it up to his chest. "Ah-ha! If I haven't missed my guess, I'd say these should fit," she exclaimed happily. "Why don't you try on this black and white plaid with a thermal shirt to go underneath it and we'll see?"

Red hesitated, a polite refusal on the tip of his tongue, but the look of hopeful delight on her face was enough to give him pause. It clearly meant a lot to her. Hardened criminal though he was, he cursed his soft spot for little old ladies. "Alright," he sighed with a resigned smile.

And that was how Raymond Reddington ended up back in his bedroom, staring at himself in the cracked mirror. The thermal was snug, but not unpleasantly so, and the fit of the over shirt wasn't bad either, he was forced to admit. Exchanging tailored wool and silk for another man's buffalo check flannel, however, was a bit jarring. At least they were clean and sweet-smelling, and thank god he'd found a pair of jeans in the bottom of his bag. Turning this way and that, he shook his head with a rueful chuckle. _Lizzie had better appreciate this._

When he returned to the kitchen Gladys was waiting, and she beamed at him standing in the doorway. "I was exactly right: a fine fit!" she crowed.

"The sleeves are a bit long," he began, motioning to the cuffs hanging over his hands, but she waved him off.

"Oh tush, we'll fix that right up," she assured him, making quick work of rolling each sleeve up to mid forearm. When she was finished she smoothed a hand down his chest, eyes over-bright. "There! Handsome as before, but we'll make a lobsterman of you yet!"

"Gladys..." Red murmured after a beat, aware of her glistening gaze taking in his appearance. Sensing his reluctance, the tiny landlady took his hand and squeezed it firmly.

"None of your polite nonsense now, young man," she said fiercely. "You need some winter clothes, and I have them just sitting in the closet. They're meant to be worn, and it does my old heart good to see them get some use after I couldn't bring myself to get rid of them, you hear me?"

Feeling an odd tightness in his chest, Red pressed his lips together and nodded once. "My sincerest thanks, Mrs. Howard," he rumbled gently. "And I'm sure Megan will thank you, too."

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AN: Chapter 4! This is, as I mentioned above, a bit of a quieter and in-between installation, but I couldn't resist a bit more scene-setting (plus, Red with little old ladies is just too good to pass up). And yes, before you say anything, I did indeed make their aliases 'Megan' and 'James'. I know, I know, I meant to change them, but somehow... they stuck.

Next chapter up soon. Thanks for reading and I do hope this continues to be the fun and cozy piece I intended. Let me know either way in a review, and I'll respond :)


	5. Chapter 5

**To all of you who continue to review and motivate me into updating faster, thank you. Enjoy! Disclaimed in the usual way, and Gladys is still mine.**

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Liz stared at the knotted pine planks of the bedroom ceiling without seeing them, hands folded on her stomach as she replayed the last few hours in her mind. Three hours ago she and Raymond Reddington had been partners at best and reluctant co-conspirators at worst, but nothing more than that. Their time on the run had been marked with everything from heated arguments to comfortable silences, terrifyingly close calls to commiserating alcohol binges. Why only now did it feel as if things were shifting?

The debacle in the bathroom had been admittedly embarrassing. Leaping naked into the man's arms probably hadn't done a lot for her dignity, but he had certainly seen her through worse predicaments and in all likelihood the incident had happened too quickly for him to have really glimpsed much anyway. He had leered a bit, made his typical show of flirtatious innuendo, but that was par for the course as far as Reddington went. _No,_ she decided. _The shower incident hadn't really changed anything._

Then there was the scene in his bedroom. It has started innocuously enough, she had fully intended to stitch him up as any reasonable partner would and head out for a run. She had even told him as much. Then he had to go and say all of that crap about protecting her. _Couldn't he just allow me to be annoyed about being cooped up? Noooo._ And then... Okay, maybe she had gone a bit far when she stripped off her shirt to shut him up.

She was big enough to admit that perhaps that was the beginning of the line being crossed, but he was just so infuriating, so used to having the upper-hand. It had been worth it, Liz thought stubbornly, to call his bluff just once. _And he_ has _seen me in a bikini, which, whatever bullshit he spouts to the contrary, is 80% more revealing than this basic bra!_ Clamping down on any further analysis of that particular incident, she huffed and turned onto her side to stare glumly at the faded floral wallpaper.

Besides, things had only really started to unravel when it came to removing _his_ shirt. She shivered, remembering the burn scars. What it came down to was that Raymond Reddington had saved her. Long ago and if she was honest he was saving her even now. All of that time he had carried her, figuratively and apparently literally on his back. Well no fucking _wonder_ she was feeling all stirred up about it.

 _But is that a good enough reason to kiss him_. The memory of his big hands at her waist, the blazing look on his face, rose up so hard and fast in the back of her throat that Liz punched a fist into the lumpy pillow beneath her head. _I didn't! He didn't—the land lady, whatsername—But you wanted him to._ This mental argument was so comically clear and of two separate voices that she groaned aloud to drown it out.

"Don't be ridiculous," she muttered harshly, to no one. "This is Reddington, for chrissake. You're just... lonely and bored." It was a weak argument by all accounts, and she was the only one arguing. Sitting up on her elbows, Liz shook her head. _Enough overanalyzing for today, Keen. He probably hasn't given it another thought._

So thinking, she rolled to her feet with a sigh and headed out of the bedroom.

 **x . x . x . x**

A quick glance at the open door across the hall revealed that he wasn't there, so Liz made her way downstairs and wandered from room to room in search of her companion.

"Hello, Megan, dear," a quavery voice startled her, and she turned quickly. The landlady had just entered the room with an armful of towels. "Or should I say Mrs. Norton? Future Mrs. Norton?"

Pulse still racing a bit, Liz shook her head and managed a smile. "Megan is just fine. You wouldn't happen to know where... where my fiancé is, would you?" The alias was coming easier to her now, at least.

"Why yes, he's out back splitting a few logs," came the response, to which the younger woman let out a surprised and rather undignified snort.

"Chopping firewood? You're kidding."

"In fact I'm not. Weatherman's calling for another cold snap and he was so nice to offer to refill the log bin next to the fireplace," Gladys explained cheerily, patting Liz on the elbow. "He's quite the helpful gentleman, your James. I rather thought that kind of chivalry was long gone."

Liz couldn't decide which was more shocking: the revelation that Red was outside at that very moment swinging an axe, or that the landlady had just referred to him as _hers,_ fake name notwithstanding. "Yes, he is a bit... old-fashioned in that way," she murmured with an uncertain laugh.

"An apt description of him," the elder woman nodded with a smile of her own. She set the stack of laundry down on the sofa and moved to the closet nearby instead. From inside she withdrew an old Carhartt jacket. "Take this if you go out, dear. He'll be in the yard. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll just go tidy up your bedrooms while you're otherwise occupied."

And with that, Gladys pressed the coat into Liz's hands and retreated in the direction of the stairs.

"Thanks..." the young woman mumbled to the now empty room, eyeing the old canvas garment with some skepticism. But then the thought of catching sight of Raymond Reddington performing manual labor reoccured to her. _Chopping logs in a three-piece suit? This I have to see._ And with that, she shrugged into the old coat and made her way towards the kitchen and back door.

 **x . x . x . x**

Stepping out into the cold sunshine on the back porch, Liz blinked hard. Her breath plumed in the chilly air and she pulled the jacket tighter around herselfin response. Suddenly, the dull sound of something striking wood caught her attention and she turned towards the noise.

 _Oh. My. God._

Some twenty feet away with his back to her stood Red, an axe held loosely in one hand as he moved to toss a few pieces of split wood into a wheelbarrow. She watched, mouth slightly agape, as he set another log on the stump, took up the axe once more and widened his grip on the handle. The easy power of his swing sent segments of oak in both directions. It also sent a shiver unrelated to the cold through Elizabeth Keen.

 _But... But... Could that_ possibly _be Raymond Reddington?_ The man neatly splitting wood was dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, jacket discarded nearby. The Raymond Reddington _she_ knew had never worn flannel in his life and didn't even drive his own car, let alone participate in outdoor chores. And yet, she'd know that figure anywhere.

Even before their mad dash from the DC, Liz had come to be infinitely familiar with the man's physical presence. He had inserted himself into her life, after all, and pushed himself just as willfully into her personal space, day in and day out. It had become so that she felt him before she saw him at times, always aware of his proximity to hers. So, was this him? It was. From the cant of his hips to the grace of his movement, it certainly was. He set up another log and brought the axe down again. _And goddamn..._

Aware by now that she was staring rather hungrily at him as she imagined the play of his shoulder muscles beneath his shirt, Liz shook herself and cleared her throat. "You're going to pop a stitch doing that y'know," she called and was inordinately proud that her voice was steady and unaffected.

At the greeting Red turned, his face lighting with pleasure as he took her in. His Lizzie stood on the back porch of the little inn, slight frame dwarfed by a man's coat and overlarge rubber boots. A few errant blonde wisps of hair drifted around her face and in the afternoon light she was beautiful.

"Lizzie!" He called back with an unabashed grin, shouldering the axe and tossing one last piece of wood into the barrow. "Nice of you to venture out of your room!"

Shaking her head and choosing to ignore the jibe, Liz began to make her way towards him. "Raymond Reddington, is that you?" she deadpanned, making no attempt to hide a slow appraisal of his appearance.

"In the flesh, if not the usual attire," he acknowledged with a chuckle. His cheeks were pinkened by the cold and exertion, but his eyes were bright. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back on her heels.

"What in God's name are you wearing."

"Boxer briefs, if you must know. I find that in this cold weather you just can't beat them in terms of—"

"The shirt, Red, and you knew that," Liz hastily cut him off, rolling her eyes.

"Gladys was kind enough to lend me some shirts when I asked her to recommend a retailer in the area," he shrugged, plucking at the breast pocket of the flannel. "On _your_ request, I might add. And I found the jeans buried at the bottom of my duffle."

After a pause however, his confident expression faltered, if only momentarily. "Do I look _so_ deplorable, then?"

Liz opened her mouth, fully intending to cut him down with some witty jab about playing failed dress up with Old McDonald's wardrobe. His ego didn't need any more inflating, and this was certainly an occasion where she'd love to needle him about his typically pristine appearance, but the words stuck in her throat. _Because... dammit they're not true_. Even in buffalo plaid, Red looked masculine and capable and decidedly... delicious. _Christ, Keen. You've got it so bad._

"Lizzie?" he murmured, and her eyes snapped back to his as she realized she hadn't answered yet.

"Fiiine," Liz sighed reluctantly, breaking his gaze. "No, you don't look _so deplorable_."

Red let out a bark of laughter at that. "Why thank you, Elizabeth. That's a vote of confidence if I've ever heard one," he winked, shifting the axe from his shoulder to rest the gleaming head on the ground and the handle against his hip. Her eyes followed the movement.

"I wasn't kidding about the stitches though, Red," she insisted, motioning towards his shoulder. "All that stretching and bending? The last thing I want to do right now is go dig that first aid kit out again."

"I'm fine, _mother_ ," he smirked. "I've had similar wounds before and I know how much stress sutures can take. But if you'd like to see for yourself, be my guest." Red leaned down, tilting his chin to grant her access to his neck.

"Alright then, I will," she replied stubbornly, stepping further into his space and reaching up and hooking a finger under the perspiration damp collar of his shirt. Holding it to the side, she gently loosened the tape at one end of the bandage.

Now that she wasn't focused on his face, Red closed his eyes at the sensation of cold fingers on his heated skin. No matter how many times it happened, her touch always felt like a rare and fleeting gift.

Once exposed a quick glance told her that he had been right—the sutures were intact—so she patted the gauze back into place and stepped back.

"And?" he raised an eyebrow at her. "Do I pass the exam?"

"For now, Reddington."

Red smiled more genuinely and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, another rush of affection pushing him to lean in briefly and brush his lips against her forehead. The gesture was easy as breathing, natural as anything. "Thank you, Doctor," he rumbled playfully. "Now, what do you say we get this wood inside and see about a trip into town?"

He passed her the axe handle-first and grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow, turning to head back to the house. Liz stood where she was for a moment, feeling an odd tingle where his lips had been and a fluttering in her stomach. He had kissed her on the forehead before, certainly, but... well. She grinned to herself before hurrying to fall into step beside him. She'd always be happy to be beside him. "Sounds good, Red."

* * *

AN: Chapter 5 already and we're still slow and still burning. If you're wondering if we'll ever see them make actual moves, well, in that way this fic mimics real life! At least in this case it's all in fluffy good fun. Hope you're having as much fun reading as I am writing—if so, or even if not, leave a review, won't you? Feedback goes such a long way. Have a great week!


	6. Chapter 6

**Good morning! A fun, but quick chapter to move things along. Disclaimed as usual. Happy reading!**

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Red stood with his hands on his hips, staring warily at the rusty behemoth of an ancient Chevrolet. He supposed it could have been an unpleasant green at one point, but over the years the elements had taken their toll. He palmed a ring of keys in one hand and didn't bother to turn when his companion arrived at his shoulder.

"Well _this_ looks like it's going to be fun," Liz intoned sarcastically, crossing her arms and making her own appraisal of the woebegone vehicle. She walked closer, gravel crunching under her boots, and picked at some peeling paint with a fingernail. It flaked off and fluttered to the ground. "Yeaaah. Remind me again why we agreed to take _Ye Olde Rustbucket_ into town?"

"Because apparently the fuel gauge on the Impala you stole is wildly off, and we'd be running on fumes long before making it to the closest gas station," he replied mildly, watching her continue to circle the truck cautiously as if it were a wounded wildebeest. "It's a miracle we even made it here last night! I must say, your record for hotwiring sub-par automobiles is rather impressive."

Liz rolled her eyes. "What-ever, at least I'm contributing. I don't see _you_ boosting any Bentleys or Maseratis to aid our cause," she shot back over her shoulder before tugging at the passenger door handle. It took most of her weight, but eventually the hinges swung open with a screech.

In spite of himself, Red smiled as he watched her clamber up into the old truck and stepped forward to climb in as well. Once seated behind the overlarge steering wheel, he reached over and patted her hand. "Next time we see one, Lizzie, scouts honor I'll steal it just for you," he said with a wink. "But for now, let us make do with Gladys's trusty old steed."

That, however, proved easier said than done. The old Chevy was a manual transmission with a tall spindly stick shift and temperamental clutch. Not 500 feet down the road and he had already stalled the engine twice.

"Uh, Red?" Liz tentatively interrupted the fluent cursing in what she wasn't certain was entirely in English. He glanced over at her from under dour brows. "Do you want me to give it a go?"

"Elizabeth, as you may have noticed we're dealing with an impossibly geriatric vehicle—"

"I did notice, actually—"

"And it may be that the machine simply can't go on any further. Gladys did mention that she hasn't driven it since last Spring."

"Yep, I remember her saying that, too," Liz nodded in agreement. "But if that's the case, what's the harm in me trying it out?" He didn't reply immediately, so she began sliding towards him on the vinyl bench seat. "Come on, switch spots."

"What are you... Oof!" Red grunted in surprise as she swung a leg over his lap and grasped the wheel for balance. "Lizzie, you could have just gotten out and walked around," he muffled into her coat as she continued to try to lever herself over him in the cramped space. She paused, straddling his knees and smirking down into his face.

"It's cold out, we finally got this truck cabin warmed up, and I'm still not convinced the price for that won't be that the engine bursts into flames," she told him cheerfully, patting his cheek with a gloved hand before scrambling the rest of the way into the drivers seat. "Now scoot over and let's see what we can do."

Red blinked. The warm weight of her now pressed into his left side, but the fleeting moment of her poised over him was seared into his brain. When he failed to move, Liz nudged his shoulder.

"Scoot _over!_ " she insisted, pushing at him until he began to slide away.

"Alright, no need to be so bossy, woman," he grumbled, but not before playfully reaching a hand around the edge of her jacket and digging her in the ribs. The shriek that Liz let out was surprisingly loud in the enclosed space. The reaction was surprisingly violent.

In the blink of an eye she had dived into the door and brought a knee up between them.

"RedrednononostoppitstoppitSTOPPIT!" she squeaked, squirming despite the fact that he had made no further move to touch her. Red stared at her incredulously, a slow grin stealing across his face.

"Oh dear, Lizzie, you wouldn't happen to be _ticklish_ would you?" The question sounded like a threat.

"NO!" she blurted, eyes wide.

"That is the least convincing thing I've heard since Donald Ressler tried to tell me there was no corruption in the United States Department of Homeland Security.

"I swear to god, Raymond Reddington, I will murder you to DEATH if you touch me."

Red laughed, eyes-crinkled in amusement, but he raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright I won't! I'm way over here, see?" He moved away from her along the bench.

Liz relaxed a bit, straightening from her defensive position. "Good, stay over there," she instructed, narrowing her eyes at him.

Red nodded agreeably, adjusting his coat and settling back into the seat. "Besides, Lizzie, the _information_ that you're desperately ticklish is enough to be going on with for now. Best to save it for an... opportune moment."

The young woman in the driver's seat fixed him with a withering glare. "Murdered, Red," She repeated, jabbing a finger at him, but he only waved her off.

"Yes, yes, you mentioned. To death, wasn't it?"

"Exactly."

 **x . x . x . x**

"Well, now that that's settled—are you certain you want to try driving this recalcitrant machine?" he asked, motioning towards the windshield.

"Yep," Liz responded brightly, settling her hands on the wheel and scooting forward on the seat. In truth, she was a bit short to drive it comfortably. "So first things first, we'll need a name."

"A name?" Red fixed her with an amused, questioning look.

"Of course, all old cars are easier to handle if they have a name," she explained as it this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Plus it makes it personal when you inevitably end up cursing them out. So! What color would you say this thing is?"

"Right now? I'd have to say 'rust red'. But likely a sort of pale green, originally."

"Green, okay, so what about... Gumby? No, God, that's terrible,"

"Oscar?"

Liz turned to regard him with a surprised but pleased smile. The expression wrinkled her nose and lit up her blue eyes and Red again fought off a wave of tenderness that crashed over him at the sight. It was hard enough to deal with finding her sexy, but adorable? _Lord help me._

 _"_ Oscar the Grouch?"

He nodded.

"I like it," she grinned. "Ornery, but ultimately lovable. Sounds like someone else I know."

"I will deny any similarities between myself and that moldy Sesame Street puppet under even the most extreme forms of torture, and believe me, I know torture."

His companion paused at that and the pained expression that darkened her blue eyes was fleeting, but unmistakable. Almost as soon as he'd said it, Red winced at his hollow failure at humor.

"Red, I..."

"A joke, sweetheart, I'm sorry, that was a terrible attempt at a joke," he interrupted her gently with a sigh. _Damn it. Torture, Reddington? You thought she'd find_ torture _funny? You've made her into a criminal, for God's sake. Why not scare her even more?_ His self-recrimination was instant and absolute. Things had been going so well, so easily this afternoon. The banter, the companionship, it was almost as if the fresh winter air had been slowly dissolving the unease between them. And now he had to go and say something like that.

Liz, however, was shaking her head and nodding all at once. "No, of course it was, you were talking about muppets. I don't know why I... well. Never mind." She tried a crooked smile. _Oh, Jesus. Did you just ruin a perfectly wonderful afternoon by balking at what was an obvious joke? If HE can make light of his past, why are YOU getting all squeamish about it?_ Because he did know torture. And she knew that he did. This man who would risk everything for her and probably already had.

Suddenly, the thought that he would endure further physical harm at her expense was so revolting that she clenched her fists in her lap. In reality she had already killed the United States Attorney General for even suggesting such a thing. _I will die before I let him die for me,_ she realized, and this vehement mental declaration instantly calmed her. For now they were safe in Maine, but the day would come soon when they wouldn't be, and well, it made her feel better to know unequivocally that when it did, she would stand with him.

"Lizzie, what is that determined look on your face?" Red asked tentatively, peering over at her. "I recognize it and fear it doesn't bode well for me."

She laughed, a light sound that she actually felt after making her decision. "No, no, just determined to get us into town before dark. Okay, Oscar..." she addressed the dashboard, patting it gently. "Let's take this slow."

* * *

AN: I know, chapter 6 was short, but it's been a crazy week and I wanted to get something out there to tide things over. They're cute, though, aren't they? More to come soon, I promise. Thank you so much for all of the support and reviews, keep 'em coming, they're wonderful and so are you!


	7. Chapter 7

**Welcome to chapter seven, wherein I take some liberties with Liz's (and Red's) past, but don't we all?** **Disclaimed, disclaimed, disclaimed. Oh, and** **Oscar isn't even a human, but he's mine. Enjoy!**

* * *

Elizabeth Keen was not a particularly tall woman. As such, she found that she needed to sit at the very edge of the seat to have any hope at all of reaching the pedals of the Chevrolet. When she scooted forwards, Red spoke up.

"Need a phone book?" he snickered, watching her with interest and motioning to the way she was perched. The young woman in the driver's seat ignored him, twisting the key in the ignition. The engine turned over willingly after a cough and she smiled, allowing it to warm for a few moments.

"Oookay... easy does it..." Liz murmured, and with one hand gripping the wheel and the other on the stick, she pressed in the clutch with the tip of a toe and shifted into first gear, transferring pressure to the gas pedal. Slowly but surely, the old truck stole into motion without complaint.

Picking up a bit of speed, she poked her tongue out in concentration and shifted smoothly into second. "Ha! See? Oscar isn't so bad if you treat him right!" Red was now staring openly in something like disbelief. "What?" She asked defensively, noticing the attention.

"Hidden talents, Lizzie," he admitted. "I had no idea you had experience with ancient, manual automobiles."

"I grew up in Alma, Nebraska, Red—everyone had a father or uncle or cousin with one of these things. I mean, I learned to drive in a truck just like this one." She told him, comfortable now that they were moving along at a steady rate. Suddenly another memory occurred to her, and she darted a glance to her right. Dare she share such a thing..? _Fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound._

Stealthily watching him lean forward to retrieve the styrofoam cup of coffee Gladys had pressed into his hand on their way out the door, Liz waited until he took a sip before casually speaking up again. "Lost my virginity in a truck like this one, too."

The reaction alone was worth it. Red sucked in a breath, mis-swallowed and ended up spraying coffee all over the dashboard. He coughed and spluttered and she thought she may have cracked a rib from holding in her laughter. As it was, she slapped him on the back.

"Jeez! You alright? Was it something I said?"

Still wheezing, Red scrubbed a sleeve across his mouth and fixed her with a glare. "You," he accused, and she raised an eyebrow at him.

"Me, what?"

"You deliberately waited until I was drinking and concocted that story just so I'd—"

"Whoa, hold on—concocted? _Concocted?_ Who says I _concocted_ anything?" Liz protested indignantly, firing up at his assumption. He continued to regard her skeptically, even as he admired the way she pressed in the clutch and smoothly changed to third gear. The speedometer crept to a puttering 25, slow by most standards but an acceptable speed for the narrow, snow-bound route.

" _I_ say you concocted, Lizzie, and it wasn't very nice. I think I have undissolved sugar crystals in my nasal passages."

Liz raised an unsympathetic eyebrow and, with her concentration on the road, seemed to consider her next words before answering. "Billy Culpepper. I was 15, he was 16 and we parked his dad's '76 Ford on the fire road behind the high school one night in July."

Red stared at her. He seemed unable to do much else, stunned as he was by the offhand admission. The incredible thing was, she didn't seem to be making it up. For a man who had survived on the ability to both spin tales himself and discern when others were doing so, realizing that she was telling the truth stopped him short.

For her part, Liz waited him out. She knew he'd be scrutinizing her words with his usual uncanny version of a polygraph test, so she continued to drive, a small smirk gracing her features as she did. She didn't have to wait long.

"Elizabeth, I have to say, you're _full_ of surprises today." He began hoarsely before clearing his throat. "Billy Culpepper?"

"Yep. Star of the Alma High wrestling team."

"And... Ah. How was it?"

Liz laughed, mildly surprised at the question. "Well, let's see. It was awkward, fumbling, at least moderately uncomfortable and in fact the best thing I can say about it is that it was quick."

Charmed by her droll honesty, Red laughed, too. "Sadly, that can be the way those things go," he commiserated with a shake of his head. "Young men do tend to be grievously unaware of their shortcomings in that arena."

"Let me guess, you're about to tell me how _you_ were so much better?" she drawled sarcastically. "That there was no such thing as inexperienced groping with Raymond Reddington?"

"I don't believe I have to, no," He replied slyly. "Such is the benefit of having a reputation."

"Ass," she huffed, rolling her eyes.

"I have never denied it," he returned brightly.

" _Anyway_ ," Liz continued, ignoring her driving companion's batted eyelashes in her direction. "He was sweet and I came away from the situation without having sworn off sex for life, but there _was_ the not-so-small matter of a wet spot on the back of my sundress so obvious that I had to jump into the creek on the way home to hide it from Sam..."

She trailed off, chuckling faintly as the memory played through the rose-colored tint of time and nostalgia. It was good to remember the man who raised her; painful, but good.

"He would have had kittens, I agree," rumbled Red with a soft smile of his own. He allowed the silence to stretch on for a moment, allowed her to gaze out the windshield in reminiscence before patting the bench beneath them with a thump and causing her to glance at him. "But really, Lizzie? In a truck like _this_?" He groaned theatrically. "The mere _thought_ of vinyl on a sticky July night is enough to give me friction burns."

The chagrined look on her face was enough to confirm his theory, and he nodded sagely. "The price of young love."

Liz lifted a shoulder in tandem with the corner of her mouth, conceding the point. It also wasn't lost on her that his comment, designed to keep the mood light, was perfectly timed to fend off a spiral of loss and worry; and for that she was grateful. What Sam would think of her now that she was on the run from the FBI was a train of thought she'd rather not pursue, and she suspected that Red had his own demons best kept at bay. _We're more alike than he thinks. We're more alike than I thought._

Now it was her turn to maintain levity, so she reached out and poked him in the arm. "So what about you, hmm? Don't try to tell me you've never..." she gestured vaguely at the cabin of the truck, her meaning clear.

"Lizzie, are you asking me if I've ever had a woman in a broken down old truck?" Red chortled, shaking his head. "Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but no."

"What? That can't possibly be—"

"Now, a wood-paneled station wagon..."

"Ha. I knew it."

"Susan McKnight," he smiled wistfully. "A college-aged young woman who, no offense meant, was rather like your young self in that she'd had woefully inexperienced partners up until that point.

"None taken," Liz quipped as he continued.

"Legs for miles and singularly flexible, which rather came in handy when trying to round the bases in a car." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Anyhow, the Buick belonged to a friend of mine, and when all was said and done I had given Susan what was almost certainly her first orgasm, and in return her ogre of a boyfriend gave me a broken nose."

Ex-FBI agent Elizabeth Keen started to laugh. She couldn't help it. "R-red... how old were you?"

"17," he sniffed, adopting a wounded expression at her glee.

"Wow, Casanova. Stealing girlfriends at that age? And an older woman, at that? I don't know whether to be revolted or impressed."

Red shrugged with a tilt of his head. "Yes, well. I may not have been the best-looking candidate, but I did make up for it with, shall we say... tenacity." He chose these words preciously, and if she wasn't mistaken, a bit shyly. He almost certainly didn't know it, but a bashful Reddington was if possible even more dangerous than a cocky one. Or, at least as far as her resolve was concerned—He was a human after all, and one with an apparently gawky past. She grinned at the thought.

"And once the word got around, you were beating them away with a stick, am I right?" she nudged him after a pause, a soft lilt in her voice.

"I... I did alright," he agreed slowly, and she laughed again.

"Uh huh. You've already mentioned that reputation once, I think I've got the picture," Liz smirked. "Besides, I don't care what you say, I bet 17-year-old Raymond Reddington was _adorable_."

He looked mildly affronted at that. "Hasn't anyone ever told you that _adorable_ is not an adjective that men are particularly fond of? Puppies are adorable."

"Oh, stop, you know what I mean. I'm sure you were... plenty attractive."

"And what about sixteen-year-old Elizabeth Scott, hmm?" He countered with a sideways glance. "Long-limbed, freckled and wearing a sundress? I have to admit I find myself rather jealous of Billy Culpepper."

"Oh God, Red, don't be—I think he's still in Alma serving pizza." She protested, giggling in earnest now as they pulled onto the main street in the town of Eustis. His expression told her without question that he thought she was missing the point. "Alright, alright fine, how about this: if we had known each other in high school, we would have hooked up."

"I'd agree with that, if I hadn't been nearing mid-thirty when you were Algebra class," he pointed out dryly as she pulled into a parking spot outside of Hank's Hardware Store. Killing the engine on the old truck, Liz turned to look at him fully since they had begun the drive and this admittedly wildcard conversation.

"Cut that out, would you? The _'poor me I'm an old man'_ thing doesn't work for you, and besides," she wrenched at the handle and shoved the door open with a foot to clamber out. "I think you're being a bit hasty in discarding the teacher/student scenario."

The door swung shut again with an ear-splitting screech and Red paused, alone for a moment in the truck. _Teacher/student scenario?!_ He shook his head to fight off a pang of arousal and wondered not for the first time that day what had become of his shy, sensitive Lizzie. Certainly this had to be some sort of backlash to all of the stress of being on the run... didn't it? Well, if she wanted to tease, to blow off a little steam, he was game. The Concierge of Crime did not back down from a tango.

Smirking at the thought and resolving at the very least to stop letting her have the last word, Raymond Reddington opened his own door to follow her down the street of the tiny Maine town.

* * *

AN: Chapter 7! Admittedly, this should have been the second half to chapter 6... and I suppose due to that the plot hasn't advanced much, but ah well here we are. In that spirit, I have a question for you all: shall I keep drawing this out, or get to the bloody point? Given the completed skeleton of this story I thought to have them spend at least two and a half days at the inn, but I admit I never dreamed that after seven whole chapters we would still be watching them meander into the first evening (these characters have a mind of their own)! So what say you, readers? I'm having a whole lot of fun with this—the dialogue, the feels—but would completely understand the desire to, shall we say, move things along. Two more days, or one? Do let me know in a review, please and thank you, otherwise I can't be held responsible for this turning into the longest, fluffiest fic of all time ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello, friends. It's April 7th, so a happy return of The Blacklist to you all! Let's hope it heralds the return of Liz's sanity. This fic is disclaimed as usual and awkward OCs are mine. Enjoy!**

* * *

All told, walking the length of Main Street in Eustis took less than fifteen minutes. They walked past the hardware store, a coffee shop/ice cream parlor combo, a tiny post office, and a few stores boasting everything from clothing to fishing tackle. The other side of the street held similar fare and a pub bearing a sign so weather-beaten the name "Wayward Jack's" was barely discernible. It was a quaint town that Liz thought might be picturesque in warmer months, but for the time being was windswept and nearly deserted.

Having taken stock of the options and arrived back where they began, Red turned to the young woman trailing slightly behind him. "So, where to?" He asked solicitously, pausing to let her come abreast of him.

"No p-preference, as long as it's ins-side," she muttered, teeth chattering. Her hair was blowing around her face and her cheeks were ruddy from the cold. Taking note of this, Red moved in close and turned up the collar of the old Carhartt coat.

"First order of business will be a winter hat for you," he told her firmly. "Come on, then." And with that he wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders and began shepherding her back up the street. Liz made an initial noise of protest at being manhandled, but subsided at the warmth and shelter he provided from the wind. Instead, she found herself leaning further into his side and nuzzling her face into the black cashmere overcoat that he had insisted on wearing, even in conjunction with jeans and plaid. They both pretended not to notice each other's twin, contented sighs at the comfortable contact.

 **x . x . x . x**

"What about this one?"

At the question, Red turned from his perusal of a spinning rack of hats and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Liz was standing mere feet away sporting a red hat in the shape of a lobster—complete with claws and eyes poking ludicrously from the top. She was grinning at him, waiting for a reaction. The game was, he realized, not giving her one. Schooling his features, he raised an eyebrow.

"I said a _winter_ hat, Elizabeth. That one doesn't appear to be very... warm."

Liz shrugged. "Well no, but what itlacks in warmth it makes up for in interactivity—look!" And she shook her head, making the arms and eyes wobble comically. Red had to cough to cover a snort, and the continued smirk told him that she wasn't buying his indifference for a second.

"Charming," he managed in a strained voice after a moment. "Although I suppose the other added benefit is that we'll match." And with that he drew his hands out of his pockets to reveal that he was wearing lobster claw-shaped mittens. He wiggled his fingers at her.

His companion goggled at him for one stunned moment before dissolving into laughter. Red joined her, their hilarity loud in the store devoid of other people save a sleepy-looking clerk.

"Red... R-red..." she gasped between giggles, clutching at her side where a stitch was forming. "Oww—oww stop, it hurts—How long have you b-been wearing those?"

He looked down at his hands and pulled the preposterous items off, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. "Since you disappeared around the t-shirt rack a few minutes ago," he answered with a grin of his own so wide it was nearly painful. Liz was still wearing the hat and the eyes were still waving as she shook with unbridled amusement.

Bending to place her hands on her knees, she took a few deep breaths to calm herself. "God, we're ridiculous," she intoned faintly, shaking her head. "And possibly insane."

Red chuckled a bit more, softer now, before stepping towards her to gently brush the lobster hat from her head and place it on the shelf next to the lobster mittens. "No, not insane," he murmured. "Just decompressing after a long day in a long series of long days."

Reaching past her to pluck a much more subdued knit beanie off of a rack, he smoothed her hair back before tugging it down over her ears and almost over her eyes. It read MAINE around the edge and a pom pom sat on top. "This one, Lizzie, is much more you."

Liz peered up at him from under the brim, hands moving to adjust the soft material, the smile on her face unchecked at the warm affection in his eyes as he looked down at her. _This is good. This is safe. This is... dangerous._ She thought, but the voice of protest was fading to the back of her mind. Because this was _Raymond_ she was laughing with, not Red or Reddington. The man, not the myth. Goofy, not grandiose. And God help her, here in Ludlow's General Store, she found herself desperate to know more of him.

"Given your history of valid—if unsolicited—fashion advice," she began finally. "I guess I'll have take your word for it." He was nodding even as she nudged him towards a different section of the store. "Now let's find a few more things for you and maybe grab a beer at that pub."

 **x . x . x . x**

Forty-five minutes later, however, and any good will she was feeling towards the man was fast-evaporating. Liz slouched in a camp chair that she had pulled from a display, new hat drawn low over her eyes.

"Red, are you serious right now? What could _possibly_ taking so long?" She called exasperatedly in the direction of the single fitting room she was currently waiting outside of.

"Nothing fits properly!" Came the equally frustrated reply, and she would have found it comical had she not been so annoyed at the delay. "Lizzie, I must say I'm flummoxed at how you've been shopping off the rack for all these years. Is this how the masses live? Are these supposedly _designed_ with the masses in _mind_? Dear Lord, how is it that the ratio of arm to torso could be so wildly off?" The normally collected voice was rising in pitch at this point, becoming more like a whine with each passing second.

Liz sat up straighter, pulling her hat off and scrubbing a hand over her face in disbelief. "What on God's green earth are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that whoever is responsible for the sizing of these pull-overs should be relieved of their position immediately. Any single item that fits me in the chest is too long in the arms and it's—" His words became muffled at this point as he jerked another ill-fitting sweater off over his head. "—baffling!"

The eye-roll in response to this assertion was one for the record books. "Red, the only _actually_ baffling thing is that the FBI is out here with me now. They showed up in the time since you went into that fitting room and we're make s'mores while we wait. Ressler says 'hi'."

"Not funny, Elizabeth."

"Neither is this! I'm one hundred years old!"

From inside the stall Red sighed and affected an eye-roll that rivaled Liz's in emphasis, though he didn't know it. "Alright, Miss Hyperbole, I'm only trying on one more thing."

He ignored her soft groan of "Thank God" and turned to the last folded item next to the pile of rejected ones. It was another sweater, thick and navy with a bit of a cowl neck on it. Slipping his arms into the sleeves, he ducked his head and pulled it on. Unfortunately, he had failed to notice the buttons at the collar. "Mmph! Oh for Pete's sake..." he muttered, feeling hot, tangled and more than a little claustrophobic.

"What _now_?" Clearly his companion had heard him.

"Nothing," he grunted, fumbling at the closures without being able to see them and bumping into one of the walls.

Liz raised her eyebrows as the flimsy fitting room shook with the impact. _What the hell is he doing...?_ She wondered, feeling antsy and impatient. Noting that the legs below the curtain were still jean-clad and therefore surmising that he couldn't possibly be naked in there, she made an impulse decision. Standing quickly she strode into the enclosed space after him.

Hearing her approach and the sound of metal rings on the curtain rod, Red jerked in surprise and stepped backwards. "Elizabeth—?"

"Jeez, Red..." the young woman huffed in incredulous amusement, taking in his predicament in a glance. "Hold still!" And with that she reached to flick open the neck of the sweater and tug it down into place.

Red's face emerged, pink-cheeked and blinking in the sudden light. Elizabeth Keen was standing not six inches from him in the narrow changing stall, so close he had to tilt his chin to his chest to look down at her. His breath stuttered at the thought, but she seemed to either not notice or not mind the proximity.

"So, what's wrong with this one?" she asked blandly with lingering traces of impatience. "Looks like it fits to me, except..." she leaned back and casually appraised the garment before reaching up. "You're a little crooked. Let me just..."

As she adjusted the collar her thumbs brushed the sensitive skin of his throat, just beneath his jaw, and Red unconsciously let out a rumbling hum of approval. Startled, Liz suddenly realized just how close she was in the confined space. Their gazes locked in an inexplicable flash of wordless, desire-laced communication, and she flushed and glanced down quickly.

"Uh, I, umm..." she began haltingly, not having any idea what she was going to say but thinking vaguely that she should break the tense silence. "This is a nice sweater. You should get it." She finished in a rush. There was a pregnant pause.

"Lizzie?" Red murmured into her hairline at last, a tentative question or admonition or request or plea.

"Red?" she asked faintly in response. "I'm... I..." a harsh exhale. "I'm sorry, I don't know what I'm doing..." This admission was soft, aching, and muttered into the vicinity of his collarbone.

"Me neither," he whispered back with hoarse honestly, and pressed his lips tenderly to her temple. He meant it as a comfort, to soothe the odd, confusing void that had risen up between them in the tiny space, but suddenly that wasn't enough. Another kiss, this one seemingly of its own volition, brushed the same spot. And another, lower, along her cheekbone. Her skin was still surprisingly cool, still smelled of wind and winter and the outdoors. _Lizzie..._ She let out the softest sigh and Raymond Reddington allowed his eyes to close, disbelieving, suspended in the moment.

Liz's eyes too had fluttered shut at the second touch of his mouth and her hands landed on his shoulders; not to push away, but to steady. _What... Oh, God..._ She grasped fistfuls of the chunky knit sweater, willing her mind to shut the hell up. Instead, she took a deep breath from her toes and as his latest featherlight kiss brushed the corner of her mouth, turned her face up to meet his.

"EXCUSE ME!"

The exclamation was loud, squeaky and from nearby. Apparently the store clerk had come looking for them, seen two pairs of feet in the dressing room, and all but shouted. Liz had rarely been so startled in her life and swore badly even as she leapt away from the man under her hands, momentum carrying her stumbling through the curtain and nearly into the teenager who had interrupted them.

"Oh Jesus—I'm so sorry, it's not what it—I was just helping—his sweater was stuck—" her words were a jumble of apology and explanation as she tried to catch her breath and balance. The youth held out a hand to stabilize her, seeing with no small amount of relief that both patrons were fully clothed.

"I'm didn't mean to scare you, Ma'am, but there's a policy—"

"Of course there is, no apology necessary," she rambled, reeling, red in the face and unable to look at either of the two men.

"Lizzie—" Red tried with dismay, fighting the urge to shift uncomfortably himself at the awkward predicament paired with another missed moment, but she was already hurrying towards the front of the store.

"I'll just wait outside!" and with that last hasty exclamation, the door to the shop swung open with a tinkle of the bell to indicate she'd left.

* * *

AN: Aaaand here's chapter 8. Gladys is apparently not the only one with timing issues. Secondly, let me just say that you're all wonderful for not only sticking with me so far, but for answering my question about the pacing of this story! It seems like we're in it for the long haul :) As long as you're enjoying it, I'll be writing it... but gee, what _will_ these characters get up to in two whole days? Thank you again for the continued encouragement and reviews, they're enough to make a girl blush.


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